The Light That Leads Us Home
“The thing that the king asks is difficult, and no one can show it to the king except the gods, whose dwelling is not with flesh.” Daniel 2:11
The Chaldean wise men spoke more confidently than they knew. Only a God willing to dwell with flesh can reveal secrets no human wisdom can touch. They assumed such a God was impossible. They were wrong.
Six centuries before the magi left the east, four young Hebrew exiles in Babylon had already met Him.
When Nebuchadnezzar issued his terrifying decree—to tell him his dream and its meaning or every wise man in the kingdom dies—the Chaldeans gave up in despair: “No god dwells with flesh.”
Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah knew better. They turned to the God of heaven in urgent prayer. That same night He gave Daniel the mystery. Calmly, fearlessly, Daniel stood before the most powerful ruler on earth and declared both the dream and its interpretation. A death sentence became deliverance, and Daniel rose to a place of great influence.
Intimacy with God made him unintimidated by men. Prayer opened heaven’s storehouse of wisdom. And in the darkness of Babylon he continued to shine.
God had already promised the destiny of such lives:
That light did not fade. It crossed generations—carried in sacred writings, whispered in royal courts, lived out by a man who prayed three times a day toward the city where Messiah would one day appear.
Then, one night, far to the east, a star rose. A new company of magi saw it and knew. This was no ordinary star. This was His star. Somewhere along the line, Daniel’s testimony and Daniel’s prophecies had reached them. Men who once scoffed that no god would stoop to human flesh now had descendants who saddled camels and rode west, willing to risk everything to find the King born as one of us.
Months, perhaps as much as two years later, the star stood still over a house in Bethlehem. The shepherds had long returned to their fields. The little family had settled into daily life. Yet when these Gentile wise men stepped inside that ordinary home, they fell on their faces and worshiped the God who had moved in with humanity.
That is Christmas. The Word did not just visit; He became flesh and tabernacled among us (John 1:14). He grew up in a carpenter’s house so that, by His death and resurrection, He could one day make His permanent home inside us through the Holy Spirit.
A few weeks ago I came across an ad for a t-shirt showing three magi riding hard across the desert, a star shining over them. Above were three simple words: "Tonight we ride."
Something about that line hit me. It wasn’t just funny; it was fierce. These men saw the Light and nothing—not distance, danger, or the unknown—could keep them from the One who had come to dwell with flesh. I bought the shirt.
Tonight we ride.
May those words mark us too. May we ride through stormy nights and lonely hospital corridors, through grief that comes without warning and questions that keep us awake, through every season that feels far from Bethlehem, until we fall again at His feet.
And may we rise to live like Daniel—intimate with God, unintimidated by men, shining so brightly that generations still to come will find their way Home by the light we leave behind.
Come, Lord Jesus. Make Yourself at home.
The Chaldean wise men spoke more confidently than they knew. Only a God willing to dwell with flesh can reveal secrets no human wisdom can touch. They assumed such a God was impossible. They were wrong.
Six centuries before the magi left the east, four young Hebrew exiles in Babylon had already met Him.
When Nebuchadnezzar issued his terrifying decree—to tell him his dream and its meaning or every wise man in the kingdom dies—the Chaldeans gave up in despair: “No god dwells with flesh.”
Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah knew better. They turned to the God of heaven in urgent prayer. That same night He gave Daniel the mystery. Calmly, fearlessly, Daniel stood before the most powerful ruler on earth and declared both the dream and its interpretation. A death sentence became deliverance, and Daniel rose to a place of great influence.
Intimacy with God made him unintimidated by men. Prayer opened heaven’s storehouse of wisdom. And in the darkness of Babylon he continued to shine.
God had already promised the destiny of such lives:
“And those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky above; and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.” Daniel 12:3
That light did not fade. It crossed generations—carried in sacred writings, whispered in royal courts, lived out by a man who prayed three times a day toward the city where Messiah would one day appear.
Then, one night, far to the east, a star rose. A new company of magi saw it and knew. This was no ordinary star. This was His star. Somewhere along the line, Daniel’s testimony and Daniel’s prophecies had reached them. Men who once scoffed that no god would stoop to human flesh now had descendants who saddled camels and rode west, willing to risk everything to find the King born as one of us.
Months, perhaps as much as two years later, the star stood still over a house in Bethlehem. The shepherds had long returned to their fields. The little family had settled into daily life. Yet when these Gentile wise men stepped inside that ordinary home, they fell on their faces and worshiped the God who had moved in with humanity.
That is Christmas. The Word did not just visit; He became flesh and tabernacled among us (John 1:14). He grew up in a carpenter’s house so that, by His death and resurrection, He could one day make His permanent home inside us through the Holy Spirit.
A few weeks ago I came across an ad for a t-shirt showing three magi riding hard across the desert, a star shining over them. Above were three simple words: "Tonight we ride."
Something about that line hit me. It wasn’t just funny; it was fierce. These men saw the Light and nothing—not distance, danger, or the unknown—could keep them from the One who had come to dwell with flesh. I bought the shirt.
Tonight we ride.
May those words mark us too. May we ride through stormy nights and lonely hospital corridors, through grief that comes without warning and questions that keep us awake, through every season that feels far from Bethlehem, until we fall again at His feet.
And may we rise to live like Daniel—intimate with God, unintimidated by men, shining so brightly that generations still to come will find their way Home by the light we leave behind.
Come, Lord Jesus. Make Yourself at home.